Six weeks ago, from a sailboat in the middle of the Bahamas, the Purple Squirrel sent an email to The Other Fork in the Road, crossing oceans and continents before reaching me in the Arctic Circle, and now I live in his van. Sometimes you just gotta reach out and grab the random bits of confetti life throws in your direction.
When I first opened the email-read-round-the-world, I was easing into my four hour early morning layover in Frankfurt en route to Finland. I had quite literally nothing to do but stalk my new pen pal, so I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. The very first piece of information the internet coughed up was that he may or may not live in a van.
(!!!) I repeat (!!!)
I immediately closed my laptop and skeptically side-eyed everyone within side-eyeing distance, as if someone was playing a dirty trick on me. I don’t know when exactly I started dreaming of life on the road, but purchasing my rooftop tent was no accident. I had big plans for my Tonka truck. I drew detailed pictures in my head of how I would arrange my belongings inside the FJ to best accommodate my bike, snowboard and outdoor gear. How I would organize and reduce my world to whatever could fit atop of four wheels. How I would shit, shower and shave at Flying J’s, Pilots, gas stations across the country, living on simple meals and water, things that could survive in a cooler.
And here was this guy, already out there living his version of a similar dream, reaching out with a simple but effective email (Subject: Forking Awesome) summed up, “Hi. I’m, preeeetty sure we should be friends.” The more research (stalking) I did, the more dots connected and the more convinced I became my new pen pal did indeed live in a van, and that’s how I came to be sitting outside in Kanab, Utah at a high school track, writing this post while the Purple Squirrel (aka Van Man) runs calculated laps, exercising more than any human should, in preparation for an Ironman. I’m perfectly content to be the one sitting in the bleachers, my chosen form of bodily punishment quickly approaching.
When the Van Man offered to road trip me from Denver to Campo, the southern terminus of the PCT, it was quite literally impossible for me to turn him down. I mean, seriously, an opportunity to live in a van for three weeks whilst road tripping to the next big adventure in my life with a perfect stranger? The trifecta of obvious yes’s. The fact Van Man magically morphed into a Purple Squirrel was an unexpected bonus, like winning both showcases on The Price Is Right, because if I’m being honest, what intrigued me most was meeting the well-built van that grew from his creative mind and capable hands.
Her name is Little E, and she is beautiful.
Thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail prepared me for many things in my future I couldn’t have possibly known back then, one of them being van life. Living out of a backpack for five months makes van life seem almost luxurious, especially if you live in a van like Little E. She’s got it all. A roomy fridge that can easily store delicious fresh fruits and vegetables, bacon and eggs, all the cheese and meats you can possibly imagine. And beer. All the beer. You’re still technically packing it in and out, just not on your back. Cuisine possibilities are endless, except if you need an oven. Then the cuisine possibilities end.
She’s got hot water, a kitchen sink, an outdoor and indoor shower that all but disappears when not in use. She’s got a cozy warm bed, lighting for every mood, surround sound, heat, swivel chair seating, ample storage, outlets, USB and solar power to keep your life supercharged. Only *slightly* better than trail life, which has pretty much none of those things.
And we should talk about the toilet. A speckled white, odorless, tucked away piece of beautifully functional plastic that rolls out to store my #1s, and rolls in while composting my #2s. It is easily my favorite thing inside this van at all times. I gaze lovingly as it rolls from its storage cubby, often resisting the urge to hug its oblong body, usually just settling for a meaningful pat, softly whispering, “I’m so glad you’re here,” before sending it back into hiding. Seriously, if you’re going to live in a van, don’t forget the toilet. Your it’s an emergency! shits, early morning pees, it’s too cold/raining/snowing outside bathroom needs will thank you.
There are challenges, sure. Reduced space and limited cooktops change the way you think about meal prep. Van Man’s been living in the van since October 2016, so he’s had some time to perfect his routine, but I’ve cooked like two meals in three weeks, and I’m pretty sure he’s a wizard.
Yeah, it’s sort of weird doing your business directly behind the chef preparing breakfast in the kitchen, but trust me, you get over that real quick. Just turn up the music and pretend you’re drinking your coffee, reading the morning paper like everyone else on a Sunday morning. Only with a much better view.
When your entire home is contained in a 144 WB Sprinter Van, with roughly 70 square feet of livable space, your body eventually adjusts, learns to dance around the corners that bashed your knee the first 226 times, around the other human body also occupying that space, up and over the natural curves of your new home. You quickly find your place, your spot, the one that makes you smile as you observe the entirety of your existence and sigh when you realize absolutely nothing is missing. (Except a van cat. I hope you’re ready for retirement, Elsa.)
But there’s more. You don’t shower every day (bonus!) and you get to wear your favorite outfit like, all of the time. You can drive for hours or stay for days. You can climb onto the roof with sleeping bags to watch the sunset or stargaze and unsuccessfully point out the North Star and all the constellations you thought you knew, but really, really don’t. You can set up camp chairs in the middle of the desert at dusk, scanning the endless terrain with binoculars, searching for coyotes disguised as jackrabbits. You can turn up the heat and listen to the pitter of rain patter turn to snow, watching as it softly blankets the forest ground next to the Grand Canyon in May. You can park on a cliff ledge outside of Moab and watch the light change the landscape, a new view every few minutes. You can be anywhere, go everywhere.
In five days, I start physically walking toward Canada. But mentally, I’m headed straight for Little E.
In between traveling Europe and hiking the Appalachian Trail, my consulting firm offered me a part time gig recruiting folks. In that extremely short week I learned two valuable bits of information: active recruiting is not my thing, and the meaning of the purple squirrel.
According to Wikipedia:
“Purple squirrel” is a term used by employment recruiters to describe a job candidate with precisely the right education, set of experience, and range of qualifications that perfectly fits a job’s requirements. The implication is that over-specification of the requirements makes a perfect candidate as hard to find as a purple squirrel.
Right now you’re probably thinking, so, that means pretty much impossible, right? Because purple squirrels don’t exist. Wait. Do purple squirrels exist? I’m glad you asked. Wikipedia has something to say about actual purple squirrels as well.
In 1997 a purple squirrel was spotted in Minnesota, then again on May 4, 2016. I mean, that actually isn’t hard to believe, not in the home of the Vikings, Prince and Purple Rain. In fact, one theory suggests the 2016 purple squirrel was dyed by fans of Prince, who died a few weeks earlier.
In 2008, Pete the purple squirrel was seen bopping about Meoncross School in Stubbington, Hampshire in the U.K. Some people tried to explain away his magical fur as a result of his stomping grounds, a building with old photocopiers; Pete just had a thing for toner cartridges. But the real believers, the ones who saw Pete with their own eyes, knew this was straight-up malarkey.
In 2012, a purple squirrel was captured in Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania, after which he became the hottest thing on the internet (I must have missed this phenomenon), quickly establishing his own social media accounts. He was released two days later. Again, people attempted to logically explain the magic purple fur with local hydraulic fracking and the ‘ole chewing on pens theory.
Later that same year in Pennsylvania, a hunter captured and released a purple squirrel while on a deer hunt. Photographs of the squirrel led to more theories as to the reason for the exotic coloration.
So, to answer your question, while there are no such things as purple squirrels, technically…there are. (Unicorns, there’s hope for you yet.)
Back to recruiting. In theory, this coveted “purple squirrel” would handle the large variety of responsibilities of a job description with basically no training, allowing businesses to function with fewer employees, though it is commonly asserted that the effort seeking them is often wasted. Some people say being more open to candidates who don’t have all the skills, or perhaps retraining existing employees, are two sensible alternatives to this fruitless search. Because damn, those purple squirrels are hard to come by.
I can vouch for that. I’ve been looking for my own personal purple squirrel for years. And they weren’t wrong, it’s been a long and grueling search. I too, often felt effort seeking my purple squirrel was wasted. I even tried being more open to candidates who didn’t have all the “skills and requirements,” though I found retraining other squirrels to take on the role of the purple squirrel was just as futile. I tried brown squirrels, black squirrels, gray squirrels, red squirrels, even a few of those crazy albino ones. While several of these squirrels were most definitely sensible alternatives, in the end I wasn’t willing to settle. I held out hope for my purple squirrel, even though I knew he was pretty unlikely to exist, or if he did, it was pretty unlikely I would find him.
That’s the thing about purple squirrels. You know exactly what they look like (purple + squirrel), so when you see one, you pretty much know when you’ve found it. There’s no confusing it for a brown squirrel or a red squirrel, for it is so uniquely purple and without a doubt, a squirrel. And a few weeks ago, I opened my door, and there it was, my purple squirrel. I didn’t even have to capture him, he just walked right in, and he’s been hanging around ever since.
Like others who’ve spotted a purple squirrel, I’ve spent the past month trying to explain away his fur, reason with logic over his existence, but the closer I look, the more vibrantly purple the fur becomes. And the craziest thing, he probably just looks like a regular ‘ole squirrel to other people, human even. But I assure you, he’s definitely a purple squirrel.
Imagine that, they really do exist.
I’ve been seated next to some interesting folks over countless miles across the skies, but my absolute favorite to date was next to a cargo pilot from California, let’s call him Bob. I took one look at him and just knew he was a talker. Before the plane even departed, we immediately bonded over our love of shitty red airline wine and made a pact with the flight attendant to keep the good stuff flowing.
Bob, a former passenger pilot who switched to cargo when he quickly realized boxes don’t complain, felt more like an old friend than a stranger I met ten minutes ago (shitty airplane wine has magical powers). I heard all about his lovely wife and two children, the oldest with autism, their family vacations, the non-profit arts and crafts shop he and his wife hold in their garage for autistic children. I learned about his love of surfing and how he takes as many friends as he can fit into his private plane and lands on remote islands, chasing the big waves. How they load up dune buggies and tear across Death Valley, spending nights camped out in the desert. I probably saw over 100 family photos on his iPad as he hopped from adventure to adventure, revealing a life made of dreams.
At some point the conversation turned to the Appalachian Trail of my past and the Pacific Crest Trail of my future. Bob heard a little about my journey, asked a few questions, and excitedly concluded:
“Oh, so you’re a prepper!”
“I’m a-what now?”
And that’s when I met my first real life Prepper. Bob has a few RVs hidden all over the country, stockpiled with the ten essentials, some questionable essentials and some definite nonessentials. He’s also a part of several groups located all over the country. So for example, if he finds himself in New York if/when whatever he is preparing for actually occurs, he’s got a New York group to take him in until he can make it to home base. What is he prepping for exactly? Doomsday? A government overthrow? Aliens? I didn’t ask, I didn’t care, I was just thrilled at the unexpected turn our conversation had taken. Fascinated and a bit terrified my eyes would give my inner thoughts away, I immediately asked if I could be a part of his group. He gave me his card.
Don’t worry, I haven’t actually contacted him…yet. But it’s interesting how he connected his life, preparing for the end, for civil unrest, for something bad, with my life on the trail, preparing for the beginning of something great, an adventure by choice, one I make happen.
As a long distance hiker, I prepare myself the best I can, do the proper research, get the proper gear, but you simply can’t prepare yourself for everything that crosses your path walking over 2,650 miles through every single (save one) ecosystem North America has to offer. Shoot, you can’t even prepare yourself for the things that happen before you take your first step on the trail.
I mean, just a few weeks ago, my better hiking half Emily and I were giddy over the approach of Day 1 just over the horizon, but now due to unforeseen health concerns, I may or may not be walking toward Canada alone. How do you prepare yourself for losing your adventure buddy, cribbage rival, personal motivator, logical voice of reason, wine-guzzling, Bachelor-watching, partner-in-crime? You can’t. You just sort of have to accept reality and rearrange expectations.
Was I prepared for a solo hike? No. Can I do a solo hike? Yes. Reality accepted, expectations rearranged.
Obviously it’s not that simple, and I am still accepting and rearranging, but that’s sort of what thru-hiking is all about. Encountering challenge upon challenge and figuring out how to successfully move on, move forward, reach your goal (but not the end, I’ve learned there is no end in thru-hiking, just a lot of new beginnings), even if you can’t do it the way you imagined.
I expect to do a lot more accepting and rearranging on this hike. The Sierras currently have 164% average snowpack or something insane like that. I’ve read several articles that mention hiking the PCT this year will be closer to mountaineering than hiking. I picture deep snow on the mountain passes, rushing rivers I will have to ford as all that snow melts, the cold, the wet, the endless postholing, slipping, cautious stepping, questioning my sanity, ability, and strength. I may be forced to turn around, walk miles upstream to find a safe place to cross, spend hours covering one mile. I may get injured, run out of food or water, lose the trail, lose my footing, lose my mind.
And I quite literally cannot wait.
Am I fully prepared for everything that can happen out there? Nah, I can’t predict the future. Who knows how these next five months will play out. But I believe with an open mind, some acceptance and rearranging, everything will work out just fine. Also, we’ll define “fine” at a later date.
On another note, I do now have a rooftop tent on my truck and I am road-tripping to Campo with a man who lives in a converted Sprinter Van. I may be more of a prepper than I thought.
**Originally posted on thetrek.co***
Back when I played with Barbies, the accessory I wanted most for my main gal was that sweet red Barbie Ferrari convertible. Why? So she wasn’t stuck in my room and could explore other places (duh).
I get claustrophobic on tiny islands. On a boat to Santorini, I stifled my panic attack, pretended I was an island girl because I had willingly signed up for this adventure with my friend Alex. It’s not that I hate beautiful, tropical locations. I hate the fact that if I need to escape, I depend on someone else to get me out of there. We rented a car on Naxos and drove around the entire island in like an hour. I took an ATV from one end of Santorini to the other in about as much time. When I reached the end, I remember my throat tightening, thinking, nononononono, where is the rest, there must be more. I need space to roam on my own.
Some twenty-five years ago, my very brave parents packed three of us kids into the back of their car and drove us out to explore the glory of the West, not once but twice. On both trips I kept a very detailed journal of all the amazing things I saw, all the food I ate (BLT, every meal), all the random adventures we had outside of the car. You can feel the magic in the story I created in my little head, excitement pops from the pages penned long ago. Turns out, two decades later, the road trip still hasn’t lost its sparkle for me.
While thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail, I gained a new appreciation for the automobile. Wheels became our lifeline, we counted on the kindness of strangers to whisk our tired bodies away to civilization. People with these coveted machines were magicians, transporting us anywhere from three to 20+ miles up the road to the nearest Dollar General for resupply, taking us to a much needed shower, beer, or post office. And though I consider my Spacehorse and Raleigh family, ain’t nobody picking me up on their bicycle out here. (Though I did take a very questionable ride from a stranger on a motor trike blasting Nickelback outside of Helen, GA.) Cars served a glorious purpose. And pickup trucks became my straight-up heroes. People never seemed to mind throwing us in the back with the rest of the cargo.
There is a certain kind of freedom that comes with a full tank of gas, undefined time and an endless map.
I left Wisconsin last week not knowing where I was really going, but knowing I needed to get out there. As soon as I passed Chicago, a drive I’ve made a million times, I started to feel what I craved, the magic from my childhood journals. I got lost on the back dirt roads of Indiana, cruised through the green Kentucky countryside, bopped along through Tennessee, and onto Arkansas. I zigzagged through the winding roads of the Ouachita National Forest and the Ozarks, crossed the Buffalo River and rolled up and down over Missouri highways on my way to the Badlands and Black Hills of South Dakota. I gazed in awe at Wyoming’s rugged landscape, clutched my steering wheel, white knuckles willing my car to stay on the windy, ice-covered roads of North Dakota.
I spend most hours of the day doing exactly what I set out to do: drive. Alone with my thoughts, no podcasts, no music, which is basically against my religion, there’s always music. I’ve avoided cities, even blowing past Nashville and Memphis, two of my favorite places to get lost, because this wasn’t their time. I was with my car, and cars don’t have much of a place in a city. When I do explore cities, I prefer to fly, take the train or bus, use public transportation, my feet, at the very most a bicycle. Driving cars in concrete jungles stresses me out, I feel uncomfortable, clunky, out-of-place. But on these back country roads, I feel right at home, relaxed, free, knowing at any time I can pull over and nap, call it a night or keep driving, literally anything I want. I can go anywhere on the map without being honked at or noticed.
Back on the AT, after hiking more than 1,800 miles to get to Mount Washington, NH, climbing the whole damn rock mine of a mountain and being greeted at the top by a bunch of tourists in flips-flops and perfume, I remember thinking, wait, I COULD HAVE TAKEN A TRAIN UP HERE? Not that it took away from the effort I had just put in, it was just…strange. But now I am the flip-flop tourist, sans perfume and flip-flops. In situations where the options are: you can hike from A to B, OR just take route C in a car and see the same thing, I’ve become a solid C student. Because I didn’t take this road trip to hike. Right now I am chasing a very specific freedom to get to a place, to a feeling I know my feet alone can’t take me.
One night I snuggled up in my 0° sleeping bag in Tennessee and the very next night I slept on top of my 45° bag in Arkansas. I love how I can take three sleeping bags with me and not worry about weight. I love how my FJ serves as my packhorse for everything. I’m fascinated by how the landscape seems to instantly change as my car races over invisible state lines, as if each state is immediately trying to define itself, tell visitors why it’s a special place, what makes it the Show-Me State, the Natural State, Legendary, Big Sky Country, Like No Place on Earth, even if I’m just passing through for a few miles.
I love hiking, I love where it takes my mind and body, how it calms my soul and frees my spirit. But that’s all I’ll be doing in a month, and I love so many things. One very valuable lesson I learned while hiking the Appalachian Trail: taking half a year off to hike a trail is not a vacation. It’s freaking hard work, arguably harder than many jobs. And knowing I am about to voluntarily submit myself to something so incredibly mentally challenging and physically exhausting, I just wanted something to be easy for a little while. I just wanted to drive, see where the endless roads could take me.
Maybe I should be training, like I see everyone else on Instagram and the online hiker community doing, meticulously preparing for the PCT, getting my pack weight down, figuring out calories. Maybe I should be planning food drops and testing out my gear in the backcountry instead of sleeping in my new tent next to my parked car, drinking boxed wine straight from the bag while I write this. Maybe I should be hiking up these mountains every chance I get, instead of powering up “low-maintained, high-clearance vehicles only” roads to get there. But I’m not. Right now, if my car can take me, I am driving there. I am on a road trip, after all.
And these back roads were built for wheels.
*Posted originally on The Trek
“And in the mind of a woman for whom no place is home the thought of an end to all flight is unbearable.”
~The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera
My younger sister is pregnant with her first child and like every mama-to-be, has all the first time wonders, concerns, questions, fears. She doesn’t know what she is supposed to feel like, because she’s never felt anything like this before. She doesn’t know what’s normal or abnormal, what feels right or wrong because right now, everything is abnormal and different. She’s never been pregnant before, this is all totally new. Sure, she can read all the books, fill herself with knowledge and facts, prepare the best she can. And other women can tell her all about their own personal experiences, what was normal/abnormal for them, what worked, what didn’t, but even that only can help so much because much like most things in life, everybody’s normal is different. Women all over the world experience pregnancy, but each pregnancy is a unique experience to the woman.
Only if she experiences a second pregnancy, can she have any real clue what to expect from her body. And even those second ones can be filled with loads of surprises.
As I sit here in the little mountain town of Jackson Hole, sipping coffee, waiting for my adventure buddies while staring dreamily at the Tetons, I sort of feel like a woman on her second pregnancy: I’ve been here before. Not Jackson Hole “here,” but “here” in my life journey. I haven’t taken two consecutive days of vacation in the past 16 months of employment, and I’m hearing the bells indicating Round II: Let the Adventure Begin, only this time, I am ready.
When I quit my job on February 28, 2014 to seek adventure and travel the world, I did so riddled with anxiety. I had a panic attack, maybe a few. I was inconsolable, even by people who had embarked on similar journeys successfully before. I clung on to my stability, my steady income, my comforts of home, afraid to let go, terrified of the unknown, yet determined to get there.
To fully experience the leap, you have to take the leap. So I leapt. Or perhaps more accurately, I was walking along, super timidly in the black of night, sort of toeing along something big, looking for solid ground, and the next step I took, I tripped and fell over a cliff. But as I was falling, I found my wings and discovered you don’t need the ground much, not when you can fly.
And then I soared.
And now, another February 28th has come and gone, and I find myself unemployed by choice once again. Only this time, I became so with confidence and excitement. I welcomed the unknown, the roads not yet taken, the uncertainty of my life path for the next ten or so months. I’ve come to an understanding that this is my life now. This is what works for me, this is how I want to do it. A life of adventure sprinkled with reality. Periods of stability and steadiness, a way to fund my daydreams, followed by long spells of adventure, exploring all of the unknown, collecting experiences that take up no space, add no weight to my backpack of life. These memories provide the fuel and motivation to get through those periods of life back on land.
This time, as I leapt into the unknown, I did so with eyes wide-open, grinning ear to ear, enjoying the free fall without reservation. Because I know (though probably not quite what Bette Midler had in mind) those memories, those collected experiences quite literally are, the wind beneath my wings.
Have you ever flown across America? I have. Way too many times, really. Every week I fly from Wisconsin to California, California to Wisconsin. Before that, life on the road regularly transported me to New York, Atlanta, Portland, Los Angeles, and countless cities in between. I’ve logged a frog’s lifetime up in the air.
I enjoyed air travel much more in the days before Wi-Fi became ubiquitous, even way up in the clouds. It forced people to disconnect, be alone with their thoughts, read actual books, chat with complete strangers randomly seated next to them; to entertain themselves without the help of their internet crutch. Facebook, Instagram, work emails, text messages, Snapchat, Tinder…they would have to wait. In an era where uninterrupted think time is on the endangered species list for so many of us, that’s a privilege, not a punishment. Even today, I defy airplane Wi-Fi, choosing instead to enjoy the luxurious chunk of time reading or writing, listening to queued up podcasts, perusing a new travel magazine, devouring the latest issue of The Week, and yes, sometimes falling asleep. But sometimes, I open the tiny plastic oval window shade, look down at the vastness below, and just…think.
How is it possible to be barreling through the air at this tremendous speed? What’s that smell? How do I make it alive every time (so far)? What’s down there? Seriously, who farted? WHY ARE SO MANY PEOPLE GOING TO OHIO? (I’m a Wisconsinite, I can say that with genuine curiosity and not as an insult.)
I marvel at the clouds, the many different shapes and sizes and textures with which they can layer the sky. I search the horizon, mesmerized by the color palate, how it bleeds together to paint the dawn, dusk, defying time as we travel ahead, or back in time. I gaze down at the mountains, the desert, the tiny squares of farmland, vast valleys, monumental canyons, gaps in the earth, cracks in the land, the endless ocean. You can almost see how Earth took shape over time from up here, the long ridge lines, the open crevices, rugged mountain sides. It’s incredible. America truly is a beautiful sight to behold from 10,000 feet above.
Sometimes (/always) I picture myself down there, a tiny little human, standing on the edge of a giant canyon. I wonder what it would be like to walk across that land, how long it would take me to hike over each kind of terrain that presents itself to me as the plane mechanically swipes right with its powerful engine. I visualize myself trekking along, one foot after another, climbing, scrambling, struggling, no one around for miles, not a soul in sight.
Surveying the landscape below, I question how long I could walk before encountering another living, breathing person. Occasionally the cold metal bird flies over tiny remote communities, their little lights twinkling in the sun, a sort of weird version of hide and seek, Hey! You found us! But just so you know…we weren’t hiding. You just couldn’t see us. Flying a redeye is less…everything. You can’t see the beauty of the land, the cracks, the time, the life, the non-life. Just… darkness. Sometimes I stare blindly into the abyss and count the aeronautical time that flies by between twinkling lights of life.
My favorite state in the whole world of The United States is Montana. Why? Because for as large as it is, practically no one lives there. It is as it was. People haven’t totally ruined it (yet) with their concrete jungles and Uber filled streets. It’s magical, like literal magic, basically Hogwarts. Everyone I’ve met is top-notch pleasant, the food tastes like miracles and the beer flows like a rainbow, the pot of gold being the toilet. Moments within stepping foot into the promised land during winter, it almost immediately begins to snow, powder for everyone! And shoot, everything just sort of works out, pretty much always. Montana is amazing. Montana is the best. But Montana doesn’t represent all of America. I mean, I go there to get away from America.
The problem with our country (which is also sort of the awesomest part), in case you haven’t noticed, WE’RE GINORMOUS. Like, really, really big. With a lot of people. A lot of different people. All doing our own thing in many ways, but in other ways, well…we’re united. The twinkling lights across the inner-lands have no less (or more) heartbeat than the throbbing pulse of the coasts. No ONE area is the heartbeat of America. We all contribute, we all work to keep it alive. Your job is not more or less important than mine, no matter what our titles, our roles, how much we’re paid. We work together, we help each other. I exist because you exist. Some bleed red, some bleed blue, but we all bleed, so the saying goes.
But Red and Blue on a color map of the United States does not represent the number of heartbeats, the number of minds, the number of souls. It simply represents geographical space on a map. If you truly believe your piece of the pie represents the heart of America, I respect that. But a heart can only get so far without a brain, without the major veins and arteries pumping the blood, without the liver and kidneys to detoxify and filter, lungs to breathe and motor skills to keep us moving forward. Our country is like the human body. It functions best running on all cylinders. No one thinks about the kidney until they’re in desperate need of one.
And if you ask me, red and blue weren’t randomly chosen to represent political mindsets in America. Both are primary colors. No other color can exist without them. They are the foundation of all the colors (aside from black and white, yada, yada). These days, we constantly hear about living in bubbles and echo chambers. I often roam the space between chambers, one of those weird conjoined bubbles you blow out of your bubble stick and you’re all like, COOL! Sometimes I feel I am wandering the hallways of the country, cupping my ear to every door, listening to the same tired words bounce off like minds, listening as they rapidly snowball down to the black abyss. All I want to do is tear off down the center of the hallway, wildly throwing open door after door, forcing the voices into the unknown, into the undiscovered, like the Pied Piper, leading his rats (not that we’re rats…we’re not rats, right?) I want to barrel through the country with my rooftop tent truck, leaning out the window to pop all the bubbles, big and small, watching as the reds and blues spill out past their flimsy invisible borders to blend together with yellow, the color of the land we all feed on, to make all of the remarkable colors I know exist, the colors I see in my dreams.
Inevitably, the airplane lands, I snap back to reality and prepare myself for the Red or Blue awaiting me on the other end of the jetway, dragging my feet, longing for the colors of my mind.
“If you’re not a liberal when you’re 25, you have no heart. If you’re not a conservative by the time you’re 35, you have no brain.”
Or so they say. No matter who is given the credit, that oft misquoted quote always bothered me, and not only because it implies I had no heart when I was 25 (my conservative years) and that I have no brain now (peace, love and unicorns baby), but because it makes no sense. I mean, I get the idea. Young people are more likely to be free-spirited liberals living in hippie vans preaching peace, love and hope for all, that is, until they have a head-on collision with the Real World, start families and discover the need to protect their own, the value of money, bogged down by bills and the pressure to keep up with the Jones’.
But seriously, is that really all life is? This linear experience where you can be this or that, and nothing in between? Are we merely all separate characters in the Wizard of Oz, in constant search of our missing human components along the yellow brick road? Can we never be whole? Is it that impossible to grow into your brain while still keeping in touch with your heart? Do you really have to choose between the two?
When I was younger, let’s say from 18-28, standard intelligence measurements would indicate I did indeed have a brain, but my heart was just learning what it meant to be a heart. It was of smallish proportions and there wasn’t a ton of room for much other than me. It hadn’t quite figured out its purpose yet; I hadn’t lived much, experienced much, and had no idea what my heart was capable of, had no clue just how big it could get. At the appropriate above quoted age to have a heart, I was too busy being my most selfish-self.
In the age range appropriate to think with your heart/be liberal, I used Planned Parenthood services without thinking twice of the fights already fought to make them available to me in my small town. I enjoyed the natural beauty of the National Parks and lands without understanding their constant struggle to keep protected lands protected, or how reliant they are on donations and volunteers to operate. I drank clean water, not wondering where it came from, breathed fresh Wisconsin air, not worrying a bit about the quality (a hint of manure in the breeze will always smell freshest to me). I received an excellent high school, collegiate and graduate education, not caring too deeply about how the whole education system operated, or how lucky I was people in power actually cared about the public school system. And as soon as I started making my own money, I immediately began to waste most of it on me. I didn’t volunteer my time or donate to important causes (or any cause really), unless you consider my wardrobe, food and beverage consumption, the newest electronic gadgets and other needless home decor “important causes.” But at the time, that stuff was important to me. In short, my existence was all about me.
As I aged, my heart grew bigger, not smaller; through people, through travel, through adventure, through life. My experiences introduced different lenses through which to see the world, sort of like how you can swap out a camera lens and get a totally different photo while looking at the exact same landscape. Sometimes you see the fine details, sometimes you see the bigger picture. Sometimes you see a photo from an angle that no matter how hard you try, you can’t reproduce it yourself. Other times you see a photo that shows you things impossible to see with your own two eyes. Not to mention all those quirky filters you can apply. I learned the world through my default lens looked much different from the world through my neighbor’s default lens, no matter how similar of lives we lead. I walked thousands of miles not necessarily walking in, but learning about, someone else’s shoes. I opened my ears, closed my mouth and dropped the attitude, “Well if I can do it, anyone can.” Just because I found a way to do it, doesn’t automatically mean everyone can find a way to do it. That isn’t the way it works, though it makes for a good slogan. “Pick yourself up by your bootstraps! I did!” Even if that were physically possible, it’s assuming all people have boots on their feet to begin with. And they don’t.
If I gave you the board game Sorry! and asked you to play Monopoly, you might run into some challenges. Sure, they’re both board games, both published by Parker Bros/Hasboro, but they use totally different pieces, boards, concepts, and play by different rules. Those fortunate enough might just go out and buy the game of Monopoly and start playing, no big deal. Those creative enough might fashion new pieces, alter the board a little, make their little ragtag game of Monopoly-ish work. Others might be totally fucking confused. If you wanted me to play Monopoly, WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST GIVE ME THE GAME OF MONOPOLY, YOU ASSHAT? Still, some will look at the game of Sorry! and be all like, screw Monopoly, this game rules!!! (It’s true, it does). Then you got those who refuse to play either board game because they think board games are stupid. And people who don’t play board games are the real monsters of this world.
Today is my birthday. I have now lived 36 years of life. I don’t fall into either side of that quote, either end of the linear equation of life; that’s sort of the whole idea behind this entire blog. More often than not, I find myself taking the other fork in the road. I live my life in scribbles. My heart is as big as it’s ever been, neurotransmitters are binding to the receptors in my brain like whoa. I am still learning not to judge everyone’s way of life solely based on my own personal experiences, desires and beliefs. This is an extremely difficult thing to master, and I’ve relapsed more than once. I’ve found the best way to get back on track is to have even more personal experiences with the Great Variety that is Life. And oh, how I value those personal experiences. They’ve shaped me, given me the solid foundation I’ve been waiting to build on for so long. They’ve made me who I am today, and I am proud of that person. My eyes are open, my ears are perked, my heart has expanded beyond the simple outline of an organ and my brain is soaking it up and processing it all. Imagine that. A world in which you can have both a heart and a brain.
So what do you call people over 35 who exercise their brains, want to protect and provide for their own families, value equal rights for all humans regardless of race, religion or gender, believe in protecting our beautiful earth, the institution of education, practice tolerance, acceptance and have a heart with all the feels?
The Future of America.
(and maybe a wee bit optimistic)
Ever hear that phrase, It’s not what you said, it’s how you said it? I got that a lot growing up. I think I had a problem with tone (as in, I only had one, and it was what we call, “snotty”). Or have you ever seen that State Farm commercial about two ladies talking about a couch one just had to have, and then seeing two thieves in her house saying the exact same thing about the couch, only they’re talking about stealing it?
Who you are on the inside, often gives a lot of meaning to your words, the intent of your actions on the outside. In which case, Trump is sort of screwed. (Which also makes me think of another phrase: You made your bed, and you’ll have to lie in it. You led quite the campaign, sir.)
You can try to justify the executive order to restrict travel from the chosen predominantly Muslim countries if it makes you feel better about your chosen president and the country you live in. But you can’t deny his desire for, “a complete and total shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country’s representatives can figure out what the hell is going on.” Because, I mean, I can replay it for you if I must. Trump loves an audience.
You can say, but, but Obama did it! (not exactly). But if you still insist that it’s the same thing, why didn’t these widespread airports protests happen back then? Because we liked our president? I mean, I didn’t even vote for Obama second term. That’s right folks, I also vote Republican, and damn, Mitt Romney lookin’ reeeeal good right ’bout now. You too, McCain, you too. Single tear emoji. The reaction wasn’t the same, because it’s not the same thing. Two decent comparisons worth reading: FactCheck.org and Snopes
You can pretend that detaining a seven-year-old child at an airport for hours, keeping him from his mother is a great example of extreme vetting (it’s not). You can pretend that legal permanent U.S. residents weren’t detained at airports (they were). You can pretend that the President of the United States of America mocking someone’s emotions is a presidential thing to do (um, no, not even if they are fake). You don’t get to mock people, Mr. President. This isn’t the Apprentice. Get with the program, or get out (see what I did there?)
You can believe Trump when he says, “This is not a Muslim ban, as the media is falsely reporting. This is not about religion (it is when you give preference to Christian refugees) – this is about terror and keeping our country safe.” But if you believe him, you should ask yourself why certain countries, you know, like Saudi Arabia, weren’t on that list. I mean, that’s where the 9/11 attackers came from…right? Wasn’t that like, the ultimate attack on America? Maybe it’s just a coincidence he has business ties to the “scary” countries not on the ban list? And if it’s because he just “used those same countries Obama listed,” somebody he thought was weak on terrorism, we should note 2017 is not the same as 2011 and as President it’s time to do some of your own legwork. Not to mention, none of the countries on the ban list have killed any American on U.S soil? But hey man, thanks for keeping me safe here in America. Not totally convinced you helped my safety in traveling anywhere outside of the States, but fuck it, America first, amiright? Who gives a shit about learning other cultures, experiencing other lands, understanding there’s more than just us in this great big world? USA! USA! (For the record, I will continue to travel abroad, maybe even more intensely, if only to make sure everyone knows, Trump is NOT America.)
You can even believe Trump when he blames an airline glitch for the disorder at international airports across the country. But for the past decade, I’ve spend almost two full days a week hanging out in airports or up in the air. I’ve been victim of countless “airline glitches,” just survived another United one two weeks ago. Which is why I feel qualified to tell you what I witnessed in LAX Tom Bradley International Terminal on Sunday was NOT the result of an airline glitch. It was a large organized group of people, from all races and religions, standing up for their Muslim brothers and sisters in unity. It was the group of attorneys, ready to take cases, provide counsel for any person who needed it. The disorder and fear came from real people, even those legal with permission to be in America, being told, “Uh, hey, yeah, we don’t know why exactly, but you aren’t welcome here…anymore. As of like, a few hours ago…soooo…BRB.” Also, I can’t remember the last time police in riot gear showed up for an airline glitch. But shoot, maybe I’m the one not paying attention.
But let’s put aside this thing he did for a second. And let’s talk about how he did it.
If we can agree on anything: this executive order wasn’t well executed. People were confused, man. Airport officials were confused. Families were confused. Government officials were confused. Pretty much EVERYONE was like, “Umm, sooooo, yeah…I feel like I should know this…and this might sound stupid…but like, what is happening again?”
There was absolutely no evidence that something like this needed to be done quickly. We were under no immediate threat. GOP lawmakers said their offices had no hand in drafting the order and received no briefings from the White House on how it should work. Even Newt Gingrich conceded that coordination could have been better. It did not appear to have gone through the Department of Justice or any of the people who actually know a thing or two about constitutional law, or you know, government. It didn’t appear to go through anyone really, aside from Trump’s inner circle of friends. Even the Defense Secretary and Homeland Security Secretary claim to have not been aware of the details of the directive until around the time Trump signed it. Leading intelligence officers were left in the dark. Basically, everyone knows it could have been done better. Like…way, way better.
In other words, some pretty key folks weren’t abreast of the situation. (Yes, I love using the word abreast. I picture informed chickens with boobs and it makes me laugh. And I seriously need to laugh right now.) Meanwhile, Trump is knighting Bannon, as the newest member of the National Security Council’s principals committee and demoting the director of National Intelligence and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Oh goodie. As a reminder of Steve Bannon’s credentials: former naval officer, former head of Breitbart News, a far-right media outlet that has promoted conspiracy theories and is a platform for the alt-right movement, which espouses white nationalism. Oh man, if that don’t make me feel secure, I don’t know what will.
It’s times like these I need to remind myself, we still have the other government branches!! (for now) (don’t we?) (oh shit). As a reminder of why we have branches, please read this excerpt from my absolute favorite political website, Congress For Kids:
Delegates at the Constitutional Convention also wanted to divide power within the federal government. They did not want these powers to be controlled by just one man or one group. The delegates were afraid that if a small group received too much power, the United States would wind up under the rule of another dictator or tyrant. (gulp)
To avoid the risk of dictatorship or tyranny, the group divided the new government into three parts, or branches: the executive branch, the legislative branch, and the judicial branch. Imagine a triangle. At the top is the Executive Branch. The two bottom corners are the Judicial Branch and the Legislative Branch – also called Congress. Each part of the government is connected to the other. Each has its own responsibilities and powers. A system of checks and balances prevents one branch from gaining too much power.
The Muslim ban/restriction/whateverwordyoufindappropriate did not scare me. It wasn’t the only reason I was out there protesting at LAX. Trump is doing exactly what he said he would do, and I never doubted him for a minute. I expected this. It’s not so much what he is doing, but how he’s doing it, that is concerning. Without important and necessary council. Without any input. Without a second thought (and if he knows what he is doing, even more terrifying). But, Mr. Trump, you’re President now. Before signing pieces of paper, you actually have to think about what your signature means, hint: it’s not for adoring fans. You have to look ahead, around all of the corners. I know it’s hard, I spend my life paralyzed by decisions because I look so far forward, I drive myself crazy.
You can tell me not to spread hysteria, and give him a chance, but how many chances must we give him? He’s exactly who he said he was. Trump voters reassured me again and again, “Don’t be dramatic, he’s just saying that to get elected. He’s not really going to do it.” Well folks, he’s really doing it. Banning people he perceives as terrorists, building walls, threatening the free press, jeopardizing our national parks, forgetting science is a real thing, ALTERNATIVE FACTS!?!, using his trademark “You’re fired!” to absolutely anyone who disagrees with him, ignoring the cries of the majority of America (please don’t tell me you still think he won the popular vote) and simply doing whatever the heck he wants. His administration doesn’t regret not mentioning Jews on Holocaust Remembrance Day, a day originally established specifically because so many countries (Russia, Iran, Poland) choose not to acknowledge the specific plight of the Jews during the Holocaust, because ALL LIVES MATTER? Has he forgotten Hitler was specifically trying to exterminate the Jewish people? Or does he consider history fake news too? Tell me, when is it appropriate to be concerned?
#NotMyPresident, is not a cute hashtag people are using to resist the election results. He is, very literally, pretending we (the new forgotten America?) do not exist. Refusing to acknowledge the Women’s Marches across the world, for what they were. Blaming airport chaos on anything but a direct result of his actions. Calling all news fake news if it doesn’t report him in a positive light. Telling people on the White House staff the should quit if they disagree. Yeah, I’ll acknowledge him as my President as soon as he acknowledges me as his constituent.
This thing he did, it sucks. And we’re slowly working through it. And it may have (debatable) minimal consequences for me or for many of you, but please know, some things you can’t just work through after the chaos dies down. You can’t always rebuild bridges burned, especially after you’ve sold the land. You can’t rebuild mountains, put ice back on the glaciers. You can’t un-blow up countries, take back that nuclear missile fired, or bring dead people back to life. Trump signed that order because he wanted to, and that’s it. Nobody else was really involved. Acting like Joffrey Lannister, he pointed at something to destroy, and giggled as he watched it fall. He could give two shits about what happened next, because damn, look at all these photographers taking my photo. Don’t my John Hancock look nice here on this important page?
Also, I’ll just leave this right here:
Imagine being home alone in the middle of the night, waking up to a loud thunk. Someone is in your house. You hear footsteps. They stop. They come closer. Close enough you can hear heavy breathing. You roll off and under the bed, fumbling with your phone. Your chest tightens. You can’t breathe. You dial 911. The operator answers. “911, what’s your emergency?” You tell her there is a stranger in your house and you feel you are in danger. After the operator hears your story, she says, “Okay ma’am. See, the thing is, I don’t feel threatened, so I am going to have to ask you to call back when there’s a real emergency. Like one that affects me.” Click.
That’s sort of how I feel about some of the responses floating around about the Women’s Marches this past weekend.
“I am a woman and I didn’t march because…
I do not feel threatened
I do not feel my voice is “not heard”
I do not feel I am not provided opportunities
I do not feel I don’t have control of my body or choices
I do not feel I am “not respected or undermined”**
To the women who feel this way, I think that is fantastic. You really don’t know how lucky you are. It must be nice to have no fears, to see the world as a safe place, to not have a single thing holding you back from everything you want. To know that you can take care of yourself, no matter what the world throws at you. I imagine it’s the most freeing feeling in the world. You are no doubt, a strong woman. I respect you. But I ask you, just for a minute, to consider those who don’t feel that way. To consider those who didn’t have the same opportunities you had, who aren’t equipped with the same skills to handle life as you are. Who had different experiences, who walk a different path, down a different street in a different neighborhood. Us women, we’re not all the same.
To the women who did not march because you do not feel disrespected or undermined, I used to be you. I remember defiantly arguing with a female co-worker about how I don’t feel I am treated less than a man. I’m not owed any more than what I work my ass off for. I surrounded myself with respectful male friends, could always hold my own (or more) when around them. I considered myself a strong, independent, intelligent, woman (still do) and somewhat of a badass. Then I woke up one night with a total stranger’s hand up my vagina and I was like, wait a minute, I’m not sure this is what respect is supposed to feel like. And now we have a President that thinks that’s okay, and we’re debating whether it’s locker room talk or not. I don’t give a shit what kind of talk it was. If he had any respect for women, that debate wouldn’t be necessary. You can’t debate the meaning of words unspoken.
And to the women who say quit whining and speak on the real injustices that affect women in foreign countries that do not have that opportunity or means to have their voices heard.**
Haven’t you heard? We ARE those foreign countries. We’re the great big melting pot. Where else do you think our nation came from? Many American women have been there, and they ain’t going back. Why do you think millions of women from all over the world stood up and marched in solidarity with us? This was our collective voice, speaking out, speaking to each to other, lone wolves howling into the night, letting each other know we’re out there, and we will not be silenced. America is a strong country, Americans are strong people, we help pave the way. Women all over the globe are watching us, counting on us. I was marching for them, not just myself. Because even if I do not feel threatened, I know others do. And like most things in life, this is not just about me.
To the women who say they did not march because:**
I can make my own choices: But what if that choice is to marry another woman? A few years ago, I actually couldn’t make that choice, my own choice. I marched for that right too.
I can speak and be heard: But what if that voice is saying, I am a boy trapped in a girl’s body? Can that voice be heard? Will you listen?
I can vote: Yeah…now. But how do you think you got that right? Maybe you were born with it, but other women were not. They had to march, they had to fight to give YOU that right. That did that for YOU.
I can work if I want: That’s really great, but some of us don’t have that choice. We have to work to eat, to support our families. And what if we want to be paid the same amount for doing the same job as a man? What if you were still told your place was barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen? Somebody paved your way, they gave you that choice to work, you know, if you want.
I control my body: Guuurrrrl, me too. And since I have control over my body and I can make my own choices (what a concept!), I can choose to get an abortion. Because, you know, my body, my choice.
Do you see now? If, like you, I actually could make my own choices and control my own body, maybe I wouldn’t be out here marching in these streets either. These are freedoms you take for granted because your choices are different choices than mine; what I do with my body may not be what you choose to do with your body. But if you have the right to control your body, speak and make your voice heard, make your own choices…tell me, why can’t I have those same rights?
Because all of these freedoms that you say you have, I feel are threatened. People I love are speaking but no one listens, because you don’t like what they are saying. I can’t make my own choices, because you don’t like what my choices are. I can’t control my body because you don’t approve of what I want to do with it.
Funny how that works.
Just kidding. That’s not funny at all.
**These words are taken from something Judge Jeanine Pirro allegedly posted. You never can be too sure these days.
Have you ever had one of those days where you see yourself reflected in everything? Not in a narcissistic way, but more in a way you can understand, relate to, because of who you are now, or who you once were. Like you see pieces of your Sometimes Self in other drivers, your Past Self in passengers waiting to board a plane, Current Self in patrons in a bar, little whispers of yourself all around you. Sometimes the reflections bring back fond memories of beautiful moments, other times you cringe at the thoughts that cross your mind, slightly horrified of the person you used to be. The worst is when the reflection resembles a realization of yourself today, and it’s one you’re not that thrilled to be seeing. Like walking into one of those fun houses where all of the images the mirrors throw back at you are distorted and weird and not that fun at all, but that person you see is definitely you, because no one else is around (unless you’re in a budget horror movie…then someone else is definitely around).
I kicked off 2017 with one of those not-so-fun fun house Reflections.
After a rather uneventful New Year’s Evening, I joined the Dinndorfs at Shamrock, a local gay establishment with some excellent dining opportunities. The food is delicious and the drinks will get you blackout drunk before you know it. It’s the kind of place you come for brunch and stay for dinner, the kind of place that basically stapled my 20s together. When the Dinndorfs voyaged home like responsible parents to take care of their children, I decided to stick around and ride the New Year’s wave, see where the day took me.
As a woman, there’s a certain freedom that comes with conversing with strangers in a predominately male gay bar, the kind that’s void of all sexual tension, expectation, desire or need. It’s a freedom I’ve regularly immersed myself in since I discovered it existed, a dynamic I respect and cherish. I chatted with a gentleman who had been married to a woman for 35 years. He looked 40 but admitted he was in his 60s. Gay looked real good on him. I met a fun couple who owned a funky little shop near my house. I talked extensively to another man with an aunt on Nantucket, which inspired me to reach out to my friends on Nantucket (because who doesn’t have friends who live on Nantucket?) Here’s to you, Tim and Santi! Then my long-lost friend Scott waltzed into the bar, resulting in (a few too many) celebratory drinks (shots?). Twenty-seventeen was feeling pretty good.
I don’t know exactly when it all went wrong. I don’t know if my brain started processing information differently, or my ears began picking up things they had previously just left on the ground, but as the day progressed, I became hyper-aware of the negative language used to label other people, to describe current situations, to predict life in 2017. My new year. Your new year. Our new year.
And I strongly felt the need to slow everybody’s roll.
As in, I literally put both my hands up in the stop position, and said whoa, whoa, whoa, pushing my hands forward with every whoa. Sort of like how I dance.
Okay. I get it. I do. I have so, so many of the same thoughts and feelings and convictions as you do. But what you put out into this world is a direct reflection of who you are. Words matter. What you say matters. How you behave matters. And if you think of yourself as a good person and wish others to see you as a good person, you actually have to be a good person. It sounds simple and it shouldn’t have to be something that is said, yet, in those afternoon hours at the Shamrock, I slowly began to hear people all around me talking passionately about what they believe in, how love is love and how much better they are because they accept all people, yet in the very next sentence, hate and judgement for everyone with a different viewpoint tumbled effortlessly out of their mouths.
In my personal pump-me-up anthem (okay, I have three), the late, great Michael Jackson wisely notes, “If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself, and then make a change, you gotta get it right while you got the time, cause when you close your heart, then you close your mind,” followed by a bunch of fist-pumping, car-dancing, yell-singing (at least that’s what I follow it with). Declaring your awesomeness while simultaneously putting down everyone who doesn’t think like you, doesn’t see the world like you do, can’t be the best way to make the world a better place; your world maybe, but not the world.
I learned a valuable lesson from one of my new friends, who I unfortunately don’t think would consider our friendship mutual. We were having a semi-decent conversation (I am always a bit disappointed when “more money” is declared the biggest goal for any year, especially when you seem to have enough money to waste away all day at the Sham, and especially when the reason you want more money is to buy more things) when his words turned a bit harsh, super negative and blanket statementy, and just a giant bit judgmental about the election aftermath. I found myself suprisingly offended by his language, protective of the very real but absent targets of his speech, those not able to speak up for themselves.
So I asked him if he:
He looked at me like I was crazy, “Um, No. I don’t have to. They are all horrible people, who are full of absolute hate.”
This is where I whoa, whoa whoa’ed my hands. Because, as everyone in a family knows (I mean, those yo’ mama jokes are only funny when it ain’t yo’ mama they’re talking about), I can talk shit about my family, but excuse me, what’s that you just said?
I know he wasn’t specifically talking about my family, but at the same time, that’s exactly what he was doing. When you lump millions of people together, judge them based on one collective action without knowing anything about them, you also strip an entire group of people of their individuality, of their unique traits that make them human, of their potential to be anything else. And that’s not cool.
Not all people who voted Republican are horrible and full of hate; not all people who voted Democrat are angels full of love. We just see the world in a different way. We have different priorities, different #1’s on our lists of what needs to get done today / in the world ever. Just because my priority #1 is your priority #4, doesn’t automatically make you the devil who wants to eat my soul.
And so many of us fall somewhere in-between. We just go about our lives without those priority lists and can’t quite figure out what’s really going on out there, can’t quite grasp why everyone can’t just live their lives by extending the same level of decency we’ve been granted, aka, the Golden Rule (that’s the category I used to fall into. I didn’t fall too far out of it).
And as I listened to this boy/kid/man/whatever you call someone who has a freakishly higher ratio of opinions than life experience lived, tell me that he was particularly affected by this election as a gay Arabic man, I all of a sudden felt like I was transported to the other side (wherever that is). I listened to him in awe, someone technically from my own “side” who didn’t know a thing about me, and didn’t feel like he had to, to throw, “Well, you’re just a straight white woman,” in my face as an insult. And I listened to him tell me how I didn’t know anything. How I had no idea what it was like.
Man. Is this what I sounded like to people on the other side? Is this really the message we are sending? He didn’t know me, yet he felt perfectly qualified to tell me exactly who I was. Would it be better if I were a gay white woman? No? A gay black woman? A black straight Arabic man with two dads? Please, tell me, exactly which combination gives me the ability to have empathy? Is it gay, 23 year-old Arabic man, born in Madison, WI, admittedly privileged and lucky, who has personally never suffered any discrimination, hate crimes, or financial setbacks?
Belittling someone else’s plight while magnifying your own is never a good look. You don’t get to do that. No matter how much you feel slighted, you don’t get to do that. That makes you no better than them, and makes “us” a hell of lot worse.
And I saw. I saw how we could be seen, how they could easily see us on a pedestal talking about how the world should be, yet emulating something entirely different. Like a morbidly obese life coach preaching how everyone else should be on a diet while he continues to eat deep-fried pizza and ice cream for every meal.
And yes, one could argue that the Shamrock is a safe place to talk like that, a place you go where everybody knows your name, basically the gay version of Cheers. But these echo chambers are sort of the problem. If we all just keep hiding out in dark holes, talking about how the world has let us down, how will the world ever hear us? How can we fix what’s broken out there, from all the way in here?
I’m totally for marching to the beat of a different drum, but sometimes that drum just becomes pounding without rhythm, noise without harmony. If you just keep beating on it without checking in on the world around you, it’s easy to lose sight of the message you started marching for in the first place. Sometimes, if you really want to make beautiful music, you gotta join the band (or at least find a mandolin), or else risk sounding like a pretentious asshole who has no idea how terrible he is at the drums.
We are born and none of us have a choice in the matter. You are not better or worse because you are a certain combination of adjectives. You don’t deserve more or less because you are a certain combination of adjectives. The world doesn’t owe one tiny baby more than any other tiny baby. You are just you. Like I am just me. Using adjectives people are born into (straight, white, gay, black, Muslim, Mexican, woman) as insults instead of words to describe their place in this world, isn’t the path I plan on taking to make this world a better place. My FunHouse experience was necessary. And MJ was right; no message could have been any clearer.
We need to stop treating each other like the monster before the real monster eats us all.
(Now go to the nearest image reflector, turn up Man in the Mirror and loud as it goes, and yell-sing to yourself until you mean it.)